


You Might Regret It

by chufus56



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: Meme of Interest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:23:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chufus56/pseuds/chufus56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meme of Interest Prompt Fill: When Harold asks John to have sex, he says yes even though he's not sexually interested in him, because it's Harold, and he wants Harold to have everything he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Might Regret It

When Harold pushes John down and shifts over him, the sudden weight is a surprise. Harold is warm, heavy. There's moist breath against John's shoulder, heat radiating like a brand from the crotch against his hip. Harold shifts and a knee digs into John's thigh, then slips down to the bed between his legs. John stares at the pale sheet beneath him. High thread count, velvety. It has a faint crisp fragrance, like flowers.

The sheets are luxurious and Harold is clearly trying to be gentle, but the weight on top of him feels strange. 

John turns his head so that he can see the view from the windows, the spangle of city lights, headlights crawling across bridges and the dark sky beyond. There are determined quick movements behind him. Harold arranges John’s legs, pulls one out to the side, bends the other at the knee. John pillows his hands under his head and waits, still.

And then the burn - that’s a shock. Harold is insistent, pushing forward firmly, and John feels a hand on his neck, stroking him, pinning him.

John can throw Harold, if he wants to. He remembers slamming Harold into a hotel wall, that first day they met.

Harold’s hand smoothes down his spine, massaging his lower back.

John pushes the past away deliberately, decides to remember Harold today instead. His smile in the elevator, just a few minutes ago, his eyes when John stepped into the room after him. Excited, curious, laughing –  _young_. John was charmed, and curious too, because Harold was usually so in control, and John - John had been old for such a long time.

The wrong gesture and John would shatter something beautiful here, something colorful and wild and shy. The Harold only rarely glimpsed, most exotic of birds.

John reminds himself of all of that, and he doesn't buck, doesn't roll away. He pushes his forehead into his hands, closes his eyes. Relaxes, against all instinct. Harold surges forward and John breathes out carefully, wondering at how they got here. Harold's hot breath, whisky sour, panting into his neck, Harold around him, pressing into him, sweat and heat and smell all mixed together, into one. Harold is inside him and John still feels the gulf between them like there should be a time delay, it’s so big. Like words would travel through satellites before they were received.

John breathes out a laugh at the strangeness of it, but Harold is moving above him now, breathing hard, rhythm strong and slow, and the little sound John makes is swallowed up by Harold. Harold’s hand rubs up and down John’s back, over his ribs, followed by his mouth, wet, tender.

John feels the care behind it, feels Harold’s loneliness, his desire. Harold's need to be close to someone, to shelter something of his own, dwarfs the physical urge. John feels sorrow well up in him for Harold's loss. For all that both of them has lost.

John is soft, but Harold is solid above him, murmuring endearments, pain of his injuries forgotten. Beautiful, really.

Harold has given him all that he is. John can easily give him this. He lifts his hips experimentally. Harold hisses in delight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

# # #

 

The first time, the first move, Finch was high as a kite. Dosed with ecstasy.

Fusco drove Finch back to Manhattan from the number’s apartment and arranged to meet Reese in an abandoned lot. John was there early. He stood back and watched as Finch pushed open the passenger door of Fusco’s vehicle, hauling himself out of the police cruiser by degrees. When he was upright he clung to the door, swaying dangerously, until Fusco came around from the driver’s side and grabbed him by the elbow, steering him along.

“Better keep an eye on him,” Fusco said. “Pretty sure he tried to hack the Pentagon on the way over here.”

Reese nodded and Fusco gave Finch a little push in John’s direction. Finch’s face was happy and loose, movements discombobulated, like a toddler’s.

“See you,” Fusco said vaguely, and John heard a car door slam, an engine rev. He didn’t watch the detective leave, though, because Finch was already sagging against him, moving his arms and legs weirdly against John’s heavy coat.

“Mr. Reese! You are – so – ”

Finch grabbed Reese’s lapels and leaned back, an unannounced trust fall, forcing John to catch him around the waist before they both toppled over. Finch felt light in his arms. Maybe not toddler light, but Reese instantly knew that he could contain him and carry him for miles, whether Finch liked it or not. Finch giggled and patted his chest.

“—strong.”

John smirked. He was leaning over Harold, keeping them both from falling, figuring how to push him in the direction of the car without straining the fused neck and back, without twisting the bad hip. For just a moment they held each other in a parody of a dance.

Then Harold looked into John’s face, eyes darkening. The parody faded like the flip of a switch. John watched, incredulous, as Harold strained up toward him, searching, wanting, too close.

He hauled Finch upright, smooth and easy, and put a foot of space between them.

He’d wondered at first, cataloging Finch’s fussy habits, the funny suits. But Harold never made the slightest move, never gave the least hint toward John or any other man. And then John found the woman he left behind and figured that was the story on Harold.

Seemed like he might have gotten that wrong.

John held Finch up with one hand and popped the rear door to the sedan with the other. It was a twenty minute drive to the library, at least. Finch could sleep in the back. But when John tried to maneuver him in, Finch got a hold of the top of the car and clamped down.

“Backseat?”

“Yeah.” He put a hand on Finch’s and started to pry it up. “That way you can take a nap.”

Finch considered that. Briefly. “Nope. No siree.” The flirty little seductions were long gone. The toddler made a comeback. “Front seat. Up with you.” He tipped back his head before John could reply and howled, like a dog at the moon. “Shot-guuuunnnn!”

“Okay,” Reese said easily. “Front seat.” He helped Finch ease back from the car and close the backdoor. Controlled Finch’s immediate fall into the front door, got it open despite Finch’s full bodyweight slumped against it, and finally swiveled Finch down into the car. Finch was grinning, practically bouncing in the seat, happier than Reese had ever seen him. John laughed, ignoring the bang and scrape of his own knuckles against the side of the car, and pulled the seatbelt out, leaning over Harold to secure it. Harold’s hands snaked up to explore John’s waist, slipping in where his winter coat and suit jacket fell open, sliding his palms over John’s shirt.

John’s ear was about three inches from Harold’s mouth, the only reason he heard Harold’s satisfied hum, the “Oh, nice,” as fingers spread and traveled up John’s sides, rubbing firmly over his torso. The touch wasn’t hesitant or tentative, didn’t feel like an experiment or the funny tangent of a drugged mind. It was Harold taking and enjoying something fine, something the billionaire connoisseur in him knew and liked. His favorite merlot at the Carlyle, the steak at the Grand. John’s chest, apparently.

John secured the clasp and pulled away, satisfied. Scraped up knuckles and a doped horny boss were the least of his worries – Finch was in the car, seatbelt on, and Reese headed around to the driver’s seat to get them home.

Finch was quiet the first few blocks, humming to himself, watching the lights and the people slide by. At a traffic light Reese looked him over and handed him a water bottle, instructing him to drink it. Finch nodded, rolled down his window, and threw the bottle at a trash bin on the corner. He missed.

“She tricked me,” Finch announced. “Yessirree. She was a trickster.” He looked significantly at John. “A _tricksteress_.” He turned back to the window, leaned his forehead against the glass, said it again, softer, “She tricked me.”

Reese sped down the avenue, weaving around late night traffic, wondering about another try with the water. He decided it could wait till they were in the library, where the windows were nailed shut. 

Reese heard the telltale click of the seatbelt releasing and glanced over, but Harold had already scooted across the seat. The crippled man reached up lightening fast, move worthy of a boxer, and seized John’s hair.

“Harold.” John reached up and pulled the hand away, pushing it back toward Finch. “I’m driving.”

Finch didn’t seem to notice. “Mr. Reese. Are you tricking me?” The words were low, suspicious.

John didn’t know the details of whatever had screwed Harold over in the past. But he knew enough.

“No,” John said. “We’re friends.”

Harold relaxed. “My very good special friend.”

“Something like that. Put your seatbelt back on.”

Harold leaned close and touched John’s arm, his leg. “Are you okay, John?”

John let his eyes drift from the road to Harold’s upturned face, wide open gaze, and wondered fleetingly what that meant. Was he okay with working for Harold? With his new life? With Harold’s hand moving up his thigh?

John grasped the hand gently, just before it found his crotch, and pushed it back toward Harold. “I’m fine. But I’d be even better if you put on your seatbelt.”

Harold’s body shifted closer, free hand moving up to stroke the back of John’s head, palm sliding warm and intimate over the bit of neck exposed above the collar. “You're always out there. You get hurt a lot.”

John gave up on the seatbelt, and his neck. “Not really.”

“It’s not fair,” Harold said sadly. “I feel good.”

John activated the turn signal and shifted lanes. They were coming up on the library’s cross street. “Well, you should. You’re high.”

“Nevertheless,” Harold said sagely. “The fact remains.” And hopefully, “Are we home?”

“We’re almost to the library.”

“Oh, good,” Harold yawned. “I missed it.” His hand flopped from John’s neck to the arm of his coat, fingers clinging to the thick wool. “It _was_ exciting. She said she got me high because that would be more efficient. Do you find it more efficient?”

John maneuvered into the parking spot Harold kept permanently clear with construction cones and fake city permits. Harold surged out of the car almost before they'd stopped moving, turning circles on the sidewalk, cooing up at the streetlights. He met John under the scaffolding, grinning like a loon, swinging, limp and all, around a pole. “Well, do you?”

John took Harold’s elbow and escorted him to the entrance. “Do I?" Oh yeah. "More efficient than what?”

“Than killing, of course.” Harold pushed his glasses up his nose seriously. “What is your view?”

His eyes were warm, bright and inquisitive. John cleared his throat. Harold probably wouldn’t remember any of this anyway. “In your case I think high is better than dead. Though not necessarily more efficient. Watch the step.”

Harold was quiet the rest of the way up the stairs. He leaned heavily on John, letting him take the weight on his bad side like he never had before, and probably never would again. John thought he must be out of breath, getting spacier. But when they got to the top Harold said, “It's not efficient at all, is it. Not anymore. You're . . . so . . . " he swayed, patted John's hand. John held his breath. " . . . John," Harold concluded, and giggled. 

John leaned Harold against the library gate, freeing his hands to jimmie the lock. He wanted to get in, get Harold in, and get out. He wasn’t supposed to see Harold like this – so open. He was acutely aware that Harold didn’t want John to see him like this, didn’t really want to be like this, with John.

He slid open the gate and turned back to propel Harold forward, but Harold stepped close at the same time, stepped into him. Harold's eyes were huge, looking at him so easily, so openly. The library was dark and still, frozen.

Harold raised a hand. It moved slowly to brush John's cheek. “You need to be careful," Harold whispered, confiding. “All my other friends are dead.” 

Harold’s eyes lowered from John’s, settling on his chest again. His hand slipped slowly from John’s cheek, gentled over his throat, rested on his heart. He leaned forward, let his forehead settle next to his hand on John’s chest, and John felt Harold’s other hand creep around his waist, gripping him tight, holding him close.

John patted Harold’s shoulder, keeping it calm, keeping it easy. “It’s okay, Finch. I am careful.”

“Please don't." Harold's voice was muffled, low, like he was talking directly to John's heart. Not to John himself.

“Okay,” John said gently. He rubbed slow circles over Harold’s shoulder, trying to shuffle them down the hall, toward the bed Harold kept made up.

Harold pressed close, pressed his body along John’s. His hand wandered around the inside of his coat, slipped down to John’s ass.

“Okay, Harold." John stepped back, set him upright, on his own more or less. "You need to get some sleep.”

Harold blinked. “Whoa.” He studied his own library with wonder, like he'd discovered the gold at the end of the rainbow. “Why didn’t you tell me I had so many books?”

John snagged a six-pack of water bottles and lifted them up into Harold’s view, stepping away as he did so. “It’ll be out of your system in a few hours. But you should drink this so you don’t get dehydrated.”

“You’re leaving?”

Harold looked gutted.

“I’ll stick around to keep an eye on you. But you should really get some sleep.”

John pressed a blanket into his hands. Harold cradled it like a teddy bear. “You don’t want to talk?”

Talk. Right. “You might regret it in the morning. You’re a very private person, remember?”

  

 

 

 

 

 

# # #

 

That was the first time. It hadn’t come up the next morning. It’d never come up again. John figured Harold didn’t really see him that way. Only turned to him because he was drugged out of his mind, desperate with loneliness, looking for comfort.

Tonight would back that up. John suggested a beer and Harold had swallowed his fear, his hurt after Root, and stepped out into the city, guard dogs by his side. But Harold hadn’t wanted beer. He’d started with wine and moved on to whiskey. From whiskey into emptiness. From loneliness into John.

Harold finished above him, gasping, and sank boneless down on top of him, pressing his face, his damp hair into John’s back. “John,” he whispered, “John. Let me.”

A moment of quiet, absolute stillness, nothing but their breath disturbing it. Then Finch rolled, slipping off him. John followed the move. “Harold?”

Harold had passed out.

John collected his things quietly, eased into his pants gingerly. Closed the door behind him silently.

He doubted they’d talk about it in the morning.


End file.
